


Thursday Mornings

by Red



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Consensual Kink, Enemies With Benefits, Enemy Lovers, Established Relationship, M/M, Post Beach, Telepathic Bondage, Watersports, Wheelchairs, X-Men First Class Kink Meme, making tentacles with metal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik's been coming over for conjugal visits for ages, but Charles is still always learning something new. Just happy porn, really. Save for Charles having hair, it also works well enough as an animated-series fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Done back on part 2 of the XMFCKM for the simple prompt, "Charles/Erik... some kind of piss porn!" Thanks to the OP and to readers back on the meme!

That Erik could still surprise him--a source of no small wonder, for Charles--was probably half the reason they were still together, given the whole arch-nemesis thing. 

At least half, Charles thought, eyeing Erik's long stretch before he'd padded off to the en-suite. Twenty-five percent, possibly; it wasn't being shallow when Erik's bum really did look that good. 

Erik hadn't lost any of his ruthless good looks while running around and hiding in caves the last few years. He'd also improved greatly on his powers. Floating up to Charles' window and casually destroying the entirety of the mansion's defense system was, by this point, merely another Wednesday night for Erik. Charles only hoped--despite the foreboding increase in hairs on his pillowcase each night--that the stress of corralling a mansion full of teenagers with superpowers hadn't aged him too drastically. At least he knew his powers were more fine-tuned, considering all the students now thought he missed Erik merely for his ability to make it through a game of chess without falling asleep. 

Well, save for Hank, who was doomed to repair the entire defense system every second Thursday. 

Charles also knew his powers had to be amplifying, given that he'd finally seen _this_ in Erik. 

How deeply had it been hidden, he wondered, leveraging himself up in bed. Erik's mind had always been endlessly enthralling, from Charles's standpoint: brutal, carefully organized, a maze with limitless turns and hidden alcoves. Charles thought he was as intimately aquatinted as was mutantly possible with the more salacious parts of Erik's mind. 

Apparently not. 

Granting the nature of the fantasy, and granting Erik's frankly overblown sense of pride, and granting the heavy wrapping of guilt and self-loathing the image was buffered in, Erik had probably been keeping this fantasy buried well-beneath a stack of photographic memories of stock market figures. 

It wasn't that Charles meant to pry. Even Erik had to concede that, in the heat of the moment, it was rather difficult to control one's powers--Charles had an impressive bill of electronic and furniture repairs to prove that, and Hank also generally spent every second Thursday not-being-surprised the chair needed fine-tuning. And when sleeping after, it was impossible to keep his mind from curling easily around Erik's. Charles was constantly thankful Erik didn't decide to sleep with the helmet on, and instead would welcome Charles--at first begrudgingly, then with that sudden spike of what Erik would never admit was _affection_ \--into the shadows of his mind. 

That was how Charles had seen it, a month ago. Waking up, his thoughts still tangled with Erik's, he'd unthinkingly began his usual morning routine of calculating whether or not he had to urinate. Usually, he'd pull his mind back from Erik's before performing complicated mathematics regarding how much he'd drank last night versus how much a human bladder could hold, but that morning he was comfortable and lazy and had very possibly drank a little too much the night before. 

It'd been years since the day he'd been injured (though he preferred Sean's term for it to the usual overly-sympathetic whispers about " _the accident_ ," "beach divorce" wasn't entirely accurate) and Erik was about as familiar with Charles' body as Charles himself. A little morning contemplation about a neurogenic bladder shouldn't bother anyone. 

Except, as Charles carefully unwound himself from Erik's casual sprawl, he realized-- _oh_. Apparently, his half-conscious thoughts had dredged up something of Erik's, and he saw what seemed to be a memory blurred with a fantasy: Erik, young--younger than when they'd first met--kneeling in a strange hotel bathroom, the taste of come still thick in his throat and he's still hard and wanting, impatient for _something_ , and the sharp humiliation of… and suddenly the scene shifts, and Charles sees himself as Erik does, Erik's sitting on the floor, and he's commanded him to stay and he's, well. 

_Well._

Learn something new every day. Erik had started stirring, but it didn't seem proper to begin the day with "Sorry honey, but I couldn't help eavesdropping on your more _interesting_ memories of Vienna. Oh, and how long have you wanted me to piss on you?" Instead, Charles had sent an impression of lazy contentment--his usual sort of "I just woke up, nothing's wrong, no reason to start large-scale destruction just yet" message to let Erik get back to sleep--and got in his chair, contemplating. When Erik actually awoke, he was his usual irritable self at being smothered with a sudden weight of cuddly morning-person telepath. As far as Charles could tell, he was unaware of the transfer of the memory. 

Which left Charles in the rather awkward position of how--and, indeed, if--he should bring up his megalomaniac arch-nemesis's secret watersports fetish. 

In the end, he decided he'd best forget about it. It was rather invasive of him, after all, spying on such an intimate (and frankly pornographic) memory of Erik's. Erik would bring up the whole fetish thing if and when he was ready. Pushing the issue was at best rude; at worst, it was a surefire way to have Erik take up sleeping in the helmet. 

No, Charles told himself, it was in their best intentions to just pretend he'd never seen Erik flushing with more than anger, moaning as some half-idealized version of Charles held him in psychic bondage to take a leak on his face. 

Best intentions had a lifespan, however. And--at least after what had gone on last night--it was approximately one month. Erik was always a giving and generous and _thorough_ lover, and he treated sex with the same single-minded determination he used whilst training a brotherhood of evil mutants, but _last night_. Charles was just happy he'd had the room shielded a year back, else the entire state of New York would have been waking from a rather unusual wet dream. After Erik had even gone and done the thing with the metal tentacles--which was actually a bit more disturbing as far as kinks went than watersports--Charles couldn't help thinking he owed Erik. And if Erik was too stubborn to _ask_ …

As silently as he could, Charles got out of bed, began heading for the bathroom after Erik. He could hear Erik in the shower, sense his pleasure at finally wearing Charles out so he wouldn't take all the hot water first thing in the morning.

The thought made Charles pause-- _a bid for warm water, that was all last night was to him_?--but at this point, the idea was too interesting to give up. Technically speaking, this wasn't his kink. But when you're a telepath, the delineation between your kink and that of your partner is rather nebulous. 

Erik had left the bathroom door ajar, and Charles nudged it open the rest of the way. He hadn't put a lot of thought into logistics--the memory of Vienna had involved someone significantly taller and a little more adept at standing. The counter would be tall enough, should Erik be kneeling, and Charles didn't make much attempt to be silent as he angled the chair to be able to leverage himself up next to the sink. 

Not much point trying to sneak around a trained killer, really. He could feel Erik's curiosity--tinged with an undercurrent of _Charles I don't care what you're up to I'm going to have a decent shower_ , and it was all Charles could do to not make some tasteless jokes--but he concentrated on getting in the right position, pulling himself over to the far side of the counter from the door and leaning forward with an imperious air.

When Erik emerged from the shower moments later, grabbing the towel Charles offered with suspicion, he eyed the room as if this was all a very elaborate ruse to get him to surrender the coordinates of his base. Charles supposed that blocking off the room's sole exit with a large metal chair might make other men justifiably paranoid, but Erik should be able to cope. 

"Hello, there," he said. He was on the verge of saying something else suitably flattering, but Erik sent _if you even think the word "groovy," so help me--_ so he decided to hold back. 

"Yes, hello. I believe we've met," Erik replied, drying his hair with the sort of vicious energy only a man with no family history of male pattern baldness would brave. Charles grinned, and if anything Erik looked even more unsettled. 

"Charles," he began, "It's not like I don't appreciate the view, but why--"

"Why am I sitting nude on the bathroom counter?" 

Charles could sense the mental equivalent of a long-suffering sigh from Erik. _Why, it's almost as if you can read my mind_ , Erik sent, along with an undercurrent of curiosity and frank desire. He wanted to probe deeper, to see if the desire was at all tied to memories of a hotel bathroom. But Erik was often wary of excessive displays of snooping, and Charles had better uses for his powers this morning. 

_I want you to suck me_ , he sent, more command than statement. Erik started to kneel immediately, then hesitated, glaring. Stubborn pride, Charles thought with fondness, and he tempered his next words with a mental imperative. 

"Kneel, Erik."

He gave Erik exactly enough freedom to throw the towel to the floor before doing so--the towel would be a wash after this, but Erik's knees aren't exactly as young as they were in Vienna--and then Erik was before him. Flushed with anger, he was shaking slightly against the bonds of Charles's mind, as if testing. Charles almost lets the control slip as a sharp wave of arousal--his, Erik's--came over him. 

_Now_ , he orders. He transmits an image of what he wants, oddly easier for him than putting it to words: Erik teasing his cock to hardness, Erik moaning with his mouth full. 

In response, Erik just leaned forward and spread Charles's thighs.

While Charles's partners before Erik certainly never had any complaints about his cock, and--even now, when when his enjoyment of oral sex is largely voyeuristic--Charles was obviously rather attached, Erik had always been nothing less than _obsessed_. 

It was flattering, certainly, having Erik devote his considerable oral fixation to Charles, to hear that undercurrent of _perfect, could have you like this all night_ in Erik's mind. Charles had "accidentally" seen that Erik had been with men who (at least from Erik's memory) were noticeably better-endowed, and he did have to admit he was less gifted than Erik in that regard. 

But if Erik wanted to spend their first night together frankly enthralled with Charles's foreskin and then have wet dreams about it years later… Well, Charles wasn't about to complain. 

Getting an erection nowadays took a little more effort--thank god, he thought sometimes, because the whole surprise-you've-had-an-erection-for-hours thing that first year after the injury got old fast--but Erik was incredibly practiced. Charles moaned, watching him, reaching his mind out to share Erik's _yes, Charles, please, I want--_. 

His cock was slowly thickening in Erik's hand, and it was really now or significantly later. He didn't need to ejaculate to orgasm, but Erik often took particular pleasure in being able to manipulate a considerable amount of vibrators and lewdly shaped bits of metal to get him to do so, even if it did take the better part of the morning. 

_Tell me what you truly want, Erik_ , he sent. 

He could see a flicker of that fantasy _Charles perched on the edge of his chair / Erik immobile his mind screaming on the floor of some abandoned factory / "your powers are worthless I can do anything to you, you'll take it all"_ , and it was gone. Erik kept his head bowed, licking slowly around the head of Charles's cock. 

_Isn't it obvious?_ Erik sends back, cool amusement. 

_No, that's not all_. If Erik wanted to be obtuse, Charles could just do this the fun way. 

Though he preferred to hold on to the edge of the counter desperately while getting a blowjob and submerging himself in Erik's arousal, he let go with one hand, trusting Erik to at least provide a moderate amount of cushioning should he fall. Erik glanced up, and his expression held--suspicion? fear? arousal?--as Charles pressed two fingers to his temple. 

_Stop hiding. Now, hands to yourself, if you please--excellent. No, stay there._ There was a degree to which Erik was allowing this, certainly, and when Charles heard the pipes beneath the sink straining and saw the pole of the shower curtain bending slowly towards them he thought nothing of diving in, finding that bright core of Erik's power, and casually turning it off. 

"Charles--" Erik was seething, but the ruthless killer look was compromised by his erection, straining hard against nothing and already leaking precome. 

_What? This is what you truly want. "Your powers are worthless," wasn't that how it went?_ he asked, and he nudged that fantasy out--easy to find, now that Erik's subconscious wasn't doing anything to hide it--to play it back to Erik. He lingered over the image of Erik, fighting his control, a the spike of shame as he comes in his pants like a teenager, face burning as Charles's piss soaks hot through his shirt, ruins that ludicrous cape.

"Tell me," he says aloud, grinning at Erik's expression--the point between rage and having a spontaneous orgasm--and letting his hand fall back to hold the counter, "are all your fantasies so tempting? Because I would be all too happy to dispose of that hideous costume." 

Something in Erik's mind slips from under his hold--the taps to the sink start warping--but just as quickly, Erik's power is back under Charles's control. "Don't press your luck," Erik warns, glaring. 

"I'll remember that," he murmurs, fond and amazed once more at Erik's power, at his willingness to concede if only for one morning. 

Determined as ever to ruin any sort of romantic mood, Erik begins going on about what Charles “must think of me, a fantasy like this."

"Erik, you destroyed the Blackbird and broke half of Scott's bones last Saturday. If I haven't broken up with you for being an evil mastermind hell-bent on world domination--"

"Making the world safe for mutants, and I cannot be held responsible for the Summers brothers and their lack of grace and common sense--"

"True," Charles admits, at least to the need to further train his students. "Still, I fail to see how a mere fetish for being urinated upon would cause me to recoil in horror." 

"But such things, they're…" Erik trails off, a deep spiral of _shame, self-loathing, want_ broadcasting off him. Fetishes are interesting, seen from the outside--so many fueled by the very shame one felt from having them--and Erik's is no different, a Gordian knot of disgust and desire. Charles reaches down, brushes his fingers over Erik's stubbled jaw. 

"They seem shameful, yes," he says, choosing his words carefully. "But perhaps that's why we sometimes enjoy them. You're harming no one, Erik." _Unlike last Saturday, and I don't see you agonizing over that_ , Charles thinks, mostly to himself. "Put it in the scheme of things, my friend. A fetish for being dominated and urinated upon is certainly less problematic than, say, fetishes about alien robotic cephalopods programmed to rape." 

"Nothing ever is easy with you," Erik says, and Charles can feel him trying not to smirk. 

"No," Charles allows, smiling as Erik turns his head to bite softly, teasing, at Charles's palm, "But I'm lucky to have you." 

"I hope for more than forming tentacles from your furniture," Erik says, smiling against Charles's wrist. 

Charles is swiftly losing all control over the situation, Erik sucking a mark at the pulse point, dragging his teeth against that ridiculously sensitive patch of skin, right above where the line of his gloves normally rest. _There are one or two other uses I've found for you over the years,_ he sends, along with the feeling pleasure and heat running up his arm. 

Erik is getting cocky, Charles can sense it. It's the thought _all the better to put him in his place_ that gives him just enough resolve to pull his hand away. A second-hand spike of arousal runs through him, all his shielding down. Erik is pulling, again, at his control--trying to reclaim Charles's wrist, an image of Erik's bid for distraction _biting slow up the inside of Charles's arm, the long line of exquisitely sensitive nerves, the flex of corded strength beneath his mouth_ sent from Erik's mind--and Charles laughs. 

"After all it took to discover this," he says, pressing briefly against a place deep in Erik's mind, immobilizing him with a shock of near-painful arousal, "Would you truly believe me to be so easily distracted?" 

Gasping still, Erik kneels up slowly from where he'd curled forward on to the floor. He shakes his head dazedly, and he's broadcasting wordless things--the sense of awe Charles continues to call up in him, even after their long familiarity; how Erik sees Charles, terrifying and beautiful--but his voice is steady as he replies. "It was worth the attempt." 

"I do enjoy the test of my powers, Erik." _And reminding you how helpless you are before them. Stop stalling, my dear._

Half the fantasy, at least for Erik, is in the forcing of the matter. Charles is unsurprised when he has to reach down and pull Erik into place between his still-splayed legs, fingers twined roughly through Erik's hair. Erik glares up at him, mutinous, and Charles just holds him steady with his mind and arm. 

"You know what to do," he says, and Erik's hands rise slowly, shaking with what must be a merely half-hearted attempt to throw Charles's control. His hands rest on the inside of Charles's thighs, fingers curled. 

Though--absent-minded as he can be about trivialities such as eating and sleeping--estimating if he needed to urinate remained a struggle, Charles felt lucky enough that his body took well to reflex training after a year of sinking money into medical supply catalogues for catheters. He knew Erik was familiar enough with the process, if only from experiencing Charles's second-hand frustrations when visiting early after the injury. 

He's become more accustomed to his body. He's much more adept at dismissing what Erik had (unsurprisingly) scorned from the beginning, the views society had given him about people who happened to use a chair to get about. Still, there's the fact that Erik would have enjoyed this more, this would have been so much better _before_ \--

"Charles," Erik interrupts, his hands already scratching up the inside of Charles's thighs, "The fantasy does not, whatever you may think, involve blatant stupidity on your part." 

Charles grins, ruefully. Over the years, Erik has improved many of his powers; tact, it seems, was never one of them.

Wordlessly, he apologizes for the distraction, and Erik transmits only desire as he devotes his attention to making Erik press one hand lightly above his pubic bone, making Erik grip his cock, _the scent of his sweat, the heat of him, the now-familiar but always so erotic easy slide of foreskin back over the head and are we actually-- fuck, he's going to--_

Under Charles's power, Erik pushes down, the same pressure Charles uses every time, strokes over again. He tugs sharply at the coarse dark hair just below--rougher, Charles senses, than Erik would have on his own volition. There's no direct reflex, and it sometimes takes a few attempts to get himself to urinate. From the frankly enraptured expression on Erik's face, he doesn't mind the build-up at all, and soon enough Charles is pressing down, through him, one more time. Erik hisses in a breath and Charles knows he _feels_ Charles begin to piss through the hand he's got around Charles's cock. 

All along, he'd thought of doing this almost as a favor to Erik. He's been indulged, with nearly biweekly regularity, in his various and at-times complicated kinks. Doing something _new_ for Erik--Erik, who had always seemed to have a repertoire of kink that only extended from lazy dominance to a tendency toward cock-worship--was a pleasure, certainly. But seeing Erik wince, then subtly lean _forward_ as the stream of piss first hits him, hot, running down his face; being surrounded by Erik's frantic desire… Charles tightens his hand on Erik's hair and moans, knowing and broadcasting _yes, we'll be doing this again, god you love this, take it all_. 

Erik shudders, his mind consumed with this and the thought of _more_. The piss is running down his body, a wet stream following the line between his pectorals; it's in his hair, it's dripping down to his thighs and ruining the towel beneath him. His erection is straining--trails of urine teasing at the base, over his balls--and Charles makes him move his hand, adjust Charles's cock. The stream is weaker, now, and Charles figures he's got to be done sometime soon, but it's enough. 

The piss hits Erik's cock, and he makes a desperate low sound and strains desperately against Charles. He comes, hard and immediate, shooting messily against the cabinetry and loosening all the pipe fittings. The orgasm is so sudden and overwhelming, it wrecks Charles's hold and makes him cry out. 

He's so close to coming it's nearly intolerable, an itch he feels through his chest, up his neck. Erik's blunt nails dragging down his ribs, Erik's tongue flicking rough over his nipples, Erik's teeth marking his collarbone--he wants everything, desperately. Erik's muscles are still tense, and he's still panting, but slowly he raises his head and smiles, a brief flash of teeth. 

"Erik--" Charles breathes, on the verge of asking, verbally, for _oh god, anything, love_. Erik just leans forward and gently, almost reverently, sucks the head of Charles's cock into his mouth. Charles doesn't have to feel it, he's cursing and pulling Erik closer, knowing that Erik's pressing tongue against glans, licking him clean. 

"Please," he begs. It's difficult not to be shameless, where Erik is concerned. Maybe he'll achieve the level of cold domination that colors Erik's fantasies one day. For now, it's all he can do to grip desperately at the counter, flushing. Erik's pulled off his cock--he's a mess of come and piss but he's still so intense, so viciously masterful--but he's still not moving quick enough. Charles bites at his lower lip, moaning softly as he worries at it, all show. It's something Erik has never been able to resist, and now is no different. 

Erik stands. There's a moment of slight awkwardness where Erik almost-kisses him, and they share the same thought of _would Charles/I really want to taste his/my own piss_ , but then he's bracing Charles against the counter, pinching, scratching mercilessly at Charles's tight nipples. 

Crying out Erik's name, he tenses and grabs roughly at Erik's shoulders. He's once more thankful for the shielding he's built in to his rooms as he comes, thoughts broadcasting uncontrollably. 

When he relaxes again, a boneless slump against the wall, he laughs. He's sweat-soaked and his chest is red with the marks from Erik's nails. He's also suddenly aware that he should have thought to install support bars all over the bathroom, because while getting up here was easy enough, there's now the awkward matter of getting back down. 

His thoughts are still unguarded, not entirely his own. A hazy memory passes by--up in a tree he's never climbed, a snowy winter, his father calling up "you got up there, now you can't get down?"--but it's gone as swiftly as it came. Erik's thoughts are a quiet wordless query. He's not even aware of responding before his chair is closer and the shower curtain's a heap in the bath, the rod contracting before hovering easily at his side. 

_See, you are good for more than tentacles,_ he sends, smiling as Erik just shakes his head. He braces on the rod and transfers back down to the chair, thinking _but I hope you can put my bathroom back to rights_. 

And then, back in his chair where he can really survey the damage, he can't help laughing again. The room--and Erik--is a complete mess, and the shower curtain and by-now-faulty plumbing is the least of his worries. 

He'll help Erik clean it. Later. For now, though, there's another concern, and as he wheels to the bath, Erik frowns. 

"I am sorry, my friend," Charles says, smirking, "But I do believe it's my turn for the shower."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Showers on a Thursday Morning (The Asking for It Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013937) by [professor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/professor/pseuds/professor)




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